Sleep
by Jem Kallop
Summary: Bakura is still constantly haunted by the memories of his failure in the Memory World arc, his nights spent twisted and crying out in his shared apartment. He no longer has to suffer alone, however, as Marik remains with him and understands a little of his pain. Extremely fluffy thiefshipping oneshot.


**So, I should be working on my chaptered fanfics, but then FanGirl16 had to draw the cutest, most fluffy thiefshipping picture I have ever seen, and I just HAD to write a Fanfic around it. Here is the picture (it is also the cover photo for this fic), and you all NEED to check it out. It is beautiful. This is the link (if it works for once!): ** art/Sleep-380643049 **If it doesn't work, go to her DeviantArt account (she is mywiilz on there) and look at her picture called 'Sleep', the same as the title of this fic. Enjoy the fluffiness!**

Sleep

It is a cold and lonely day in the small, comfortable apartment, the reddening sunlight streaming in soft shimmers through the clean clear air as the hours roll on towards dusk. At first glance it seems empty, but everywhere there are signs of life. A half-drunk cup set carelessly on the kitchen counter, paused precariously on the brink of falling into the depths of the sink, its empty partner resting carefully by its side. Two clattered plates rest carelessly in a pool of dirtied water, cutlery tossed in amongst the mess; an argument over whose turn it was to wash up is half-remembered by a new-ish scratch on the counter, but it was silenced with a kiss before it could escalate. The table is mostly clean, spattered with the occasional stain, but nothing that aggravates either of the occupants enough to do anything about. The adjoining sitting room is simple but obviously well-used, the TV blinking in the corner, the sofa covered in a fleecey blanket wrapped tight around a shivering figure who is curled up in the corner, slender fingers wrapping tightly in white hair.

The figure's eyes are screwed tightly shut, his body curled so tight that it is almost impossible to work out which limb is where. His clothes are knotted together as he bends himself in half, the clench in his gut painful and unforgiving. His mind is being invaded.

Dark, shadowy nightmares plague his every thought. It starts with the flames, as it always does – the flames that robbed him of everything he knew and loved, once upon a time, a lifetime ago. Some pain will never go away. He has to see it again, relive every second of the day his life was flung from its original path and tossed away into the sands of time, chasing him away from his destiny and plunging him into something he was never meant to be. A lost, lonely child abandoned wandering the desert, the sands burning under his feet as the red sun glows, casting everything in a bathe far too suitable for the slaughter he has just witnessed. He knows there is no way back for him. He can feel the world shifting under his small bare feet; his destiny is changing, but he doesn't know it yet. The world tilts.

And then he saw it, the demon that would come to possess him. It was furious and dark and writhing and winding, awakened from an ancient slumber and hungry for power and vengeance. _Vengeance._ The word sticks in his mind, a sweet taste in his mouth; it will become his life force. He agrees to the demon and they meld together, awaiting the passage of time.

And time passes.

The rise and fall of the Pharaoh Atem, the wild jagged hope that dances through his veins as he is older now and grips the Millennium Item in his hand, the circular metal warm and familiar in his hands even then, the demon in his soul cackling for power. He wields the magic for the souls of his lost village, sure that he cannot lose. But something goes wrong, and he is lost to the demon. And Atem is winning.

He will not give up so easily.

A dying, wounded spirit in the middle of the desert, the only thing he has left is the metal in his hands. The tell-tale dancing glint of gold – being a thief, he knows it well – only this time it is different, and the demon plants an idea in his mind. All is not lost, yet.

Bakura releases his spirit into the gold, the demon travelling with him, and then they are trapped together, locked for eternity. Passed from host to host, Bakura pays no mind until he is found by a boy who shares his name. It is too perfect a coincidence not to be fate. Bakura takes over and investigates the modern world he finds himself in, both shocked and horrified when he finds his ancient foe reincarnated once again. And then, he laughs, because he realises that the once-great _Pharaoh_ remembers nothing of his past.

The figure on the couch wrenches his mind free, refusing to travel further down the path of his memories when he knows it will only end in pain. What was it worth, in the end? Those thousands of years of waiting and planning, scheming inside a cold piece of metal with a demon so dark that shadows cower from it constantly poisoning his mind? All they achieved was sending the Pharaoh back in time so that they could lose all over again. Bakura shudders away from that remembered pain, knowing it will never cease if he goes back there, but there is nothing he can do as his mind spirals out of control. Before he knows it, he is travelling back down the passage in time, through to the Pharaoh's memory world. And he is once more a thief, battling for revenge in a time long forgotten.

Bakura gasps and shudders and drops his hands from his hair as the memories of the ancient game flood his thoughts once more. Darkness and shadows cover him and he is alone again, completely and utterly alone with only the darkness gnawing away at his soul. But he still has his goal. He still has hope, and he will not give up.

But the Pharaoh is destined to win. Bakura isn't even there when he is defeated; the demon grows impatient long before its time, thrusting Bakura out of his body and taking on its fully-fledged form before the world is ready. Bakura is flung into the shadows, hung there and forced to watch as everything he has worked for in these thousands of years is torn up and flung away by demons and Gods. He is powerless once again.

A scream rips from his throat as he furls tighter on the couch, his breath steaming in the cold, cold air, his hands dropping into his lap as his fingers knot together, tendons snapping. He is tense; tense and locked and immobile once more. The cold metal of that accursed Ring is still wrapped tight around his neck, a prison and a comfort – it reminds him that it happened, that he tried. But it _wasn't fair._ The Pharaoh had won again, and it _wasn't fair._

Bakura howls, a broken, animal sound, and throws his head back into the cushions of the sofa. His eyes are open but glazed, not taking in the dusty apartment ceiling above him as he writhes back against the soft material, his muscles cramping and complaining. He had fought for so long to finally right an ancient wrong, only to be thrown away and tossed carelessly back into the present. Bakura is sick and tired of it. He is sick and tired of hoping.

Because the hope never goes away.

No matter how often he tries to rid himself of the infernal emotion, Bakura cannot help but hope. It has been thousands of years, too many attempts to count, scheme after scheme, plan after plan, all ending in failure; but hope will not leave him alone. It eats away at his heart, reducing him to nothing. And Bakura is collapsed, because he knows his life is hopeless. He can feel a cold tear track down his cheek, something new for his new body; it has been many, many years since Bakura last cried, but he cannot help it. He feels truly useless.

Marik is here.

Bakura knows it by the tiniest of disturbances from the hall; the air shifts, sending rolls of emotion through the cool clean air and causing ripples of comforting shivers to wave down Bakura's spine. He remains perfectly still when he knows he is being watched, his hands clasped too-tense in his lap, the tendons of each and every knuckle standing out as he squeezes his fingers together with each and every half-remembered panic that ruffles back towards him through the years. Ancient Egypt might be millennia away, but it is still all that Bakura knows. He can feel Marik's eyes on him and he knows he is showing too much emotion, but at the same time it is not enough; it is never enough, because Marik can never understand. Marik has not suffered through thousands of years. He does not know the pain of eternal hope.

There is the smallest of footsteps and the atmosphere shifts again, the cold, quiet apartment flowing forwards into the night as the last rays of the sun set for the evening. Bakura's eyes flutter closed of their own accord, his fingers still knotted in his lap as the other advances, and he knows that soon enough he will be engulfed by warmth. It increases the hope already burning in his skull and Bakura releases a muffled sob, knowing all too well that it is hopeless. The Pharaoh is gone into the afterlife, the Millennium Items buried aside from the Ring around his neck, and the souls of his village remain trapped in the metal. Bakura failed to set them free. He _failed_ at his _last chance..._

A warm hand brushes his cheek and Bakura's eyes fly open to meet the calm violet gaze he has come to recognise. Marik smiles gently as he curls on the sofa beside Bakura, casually wrapping his arms around the once-thief and pulling the blanket up around them both. He rests his head on Bakura's shoulder and sighs gently, whispering, "What's the matter?"

And Bakura stiffens, because he knows he can never explain. Marik is, to all intents and purposes, a child; he seeks the childhood he was deprived of when locked in that tomb, and he still feels the happiness in the modern time. Bakura does too, sometimes – most often at times like this, when Marik is close to him – but at the same time, he knows that Marik can never understand the destructive, burning properties of the hope that flares in his gut. Marik does not know the same pain.

So Bakura curls tighter and doesn't answer, resting his head on Marik's and just savouring the closeness of the physical touch; something he lost for so long when bound within the confines of the Ring. Marik doesn't leave it there, though.

"Are you thinking about the past again?" Marik's voice was muffled slightly by the material of Bakura's shirt, but he twisted his head around so his violet gaze could light upon Bakura's features.

Bakura made no response, but another tear rolled down his cheek.

Marik sighed and drew him closer, pulling Bakura's head down into his lap. Bakura curled up gratefully, his eyes sliding shut as he pressed himself against Marik and felt fingers tangle in his hair, releasing a low sigh as they tugged at his scalp. Marik spoke again, softly. "It's alright. It's in the past now."

Bakura growls softly, although it lacks its usual bite. "I know, idiot."

Marik couldn't hold back a smile as he gazed down at the ancient spirit in his lap, continuing to thread his fingers through his soft hair as he spoke again. "If there's one thing my past taught me, it's that there's always hope."

And Bakura goes utterly still.

Marik notices and instantly stop his motions, one eyebrow lifting up. "What? What did I say?"

Bakura remains silent for a moment longer before he shoots upright and sends Marik the darkest glare he's seen in weeks. Marik almost flinches.

Bakura speaks, and his tone is low and cold as the frosty air around them. "Hope kills you in the end, Marik. It kills you, because you can only be disappointed so many times before you give up, and then you realise that there is no hope at all."

Marik blinked, his surprise showing in the slight widening of his eyes. They narrow soon enough, though, and his arms automatically cross in front of him as he leans closer, a glare just shadowing his brow. "Do you really think that?"

"Yes. I do." Bakura growls the words, drawing his knees up into his chest and resting his chin on his folded arms. His blue jumper creases.

Marik shakes his head. "You're wrong."

"No, I'm not!" Bakura explodes. "Hope just crushes you, because after long enough you realise there is no way you're ever going to win now, because everyone else has moved on and you're the only one who remembers! I am never going to win, Marik. I'm never going to do it, and my village will lie forgotten forever. There is no hope for me, not ever, so why the hell do I still have to feel the damn thing?!"

Marik is frozen, so Bakura continues. "We're done, Marik. I'm done. I've lost and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it, and I am _tired_ of constantly being told there is a chance for happiness, because there _isn't_. There can't be, because I would have found it years ago. There's no point to anything, Marik – I'm just stuck here, floating for evermore, because I can't move on. As long as this useless piece of _metal_ survives," Bakura gestures angrily to the Ring about his neck, "Then I am stuck here. For eternity. _Alone._"

Marik swallows and for a moment Bakura feels guilty – he doesn't like to show Marik this side to him. Marik is fragile to him; he has been through many twists and turns of his own, flitting between the sides and forced to accept a destiny he hates with no one there to guide him. Bakura tries to keep his own issues to himself, knowing that Marik has more than enough to deal with on his own. But sometimes, he just needs to explode.

Then Marik's eyes narrow, hardening dangerously, and Bakura remembers that Marik is not as broken as he likes to make out. "You're wrong, Bakura."

Despite himself, Bakura's lips twist. "How so?"

"You're just wrong," Marik responds stubbornly, his arms folding as his chin tilts petulantly. "Hope is a good thing. It makes me smile."

Bakura can think of a thousand ways to respond to that childish statement – mostly ridiculing Marik's childish act and ignorance of the way emotion works – but once glance at his soft face stops the words in his mouth. Bakura swallows them and moves instead, laying himself back against Marik's lap and sighing loudly. Marik's fingers soon tug through his hair again and Bakura's eyes close. He mutters the next words, but Marik still hears. "It doesn't change the fact that hope burns."

Marik's fingers stop, stilling for a moment before his arms wrap around Bakura's shoulders and lift the Ring spirit up, facing him with an unreadable expression. Bakura looks back, his eyes shadowed and drooping with remembered horrors he knows Marik can only guess at, but for a second it seems Marik understands. Bakura shakes it off as a childish wish until Marik speaks again.

"I know."

Those two words dropping from Marik's familiar lips ring true through the air, and Bakura sees that, maybe, Marik does understand. Marik's tongue darts out to lick his lips, coughing before continuing: "I know. I lost my family, too. And I sought revenge, too. And I never got it, either; I am just like you, Bakura. The Pharaoh wins. The Pharaoh always wins."

Bakura stares back, sure his face is far too expressive but unable to school it back into anything close to its usual stoical look. Marik doesn't drop his gaze as he speaks again. "But there's something you're missing, Bakura – _there is always a way back._ After all, where's the Pharaoh now, huh? Trapped in the afterlife! But we're still here. We're still free."

Bakura swallows when he realises Marik is right, but there is still something tugging at his heart. He works moisture into his mouth; just enough to speak. "But they're still gone..."

Bakura stops, choked, and another tear escapes one brown eye. His village is still a desolate scar on Egyptian sand, its people long forgotten and its tale long ago told. Nothing will bring them back now. Marik's face shows a myriad of emotions before he settles on a half-smile, reaching forwards to pull Bakura close once more. "I know," he whispers gently, his breath ruffling Bakura's white hair just slightly. "I know they are."

Bakura stays close, stiff and unmoving, and Marik sighs deeply. "Come on. It's late; let's go to bed."

Bakura doesn't move so Marik grins slightly, sliding one arm under Bakura's knees, the other winding safely around his shoulders as he lifts him tenderly into his arms. "Enough for one night. Come on."

Bakura's only response is a low growl. "If you try to tuck me in, I swear I'm going to murder you."

"No tucking. I promise." There is just the tiniest hint of laughter in Marik's tone but Bakura lets it slide, preferring instead to nuzzle gently at Marik's neck as he walks them into the bedroom. The sheets crumple slightly as Marik lays Bakura down, not bothering with undressing as Bakura's arms tighten around Marik's waist, rolling him down to lie next to him. Marik makes no complaints, one hand winding around the back of Bakura's neck to lightly stroke his exposed, white ear, his other arm resting lightly on Bakura's. Bakura releases a low sigh and buries his head in Marik's slightly-exposed chest – the black cloth of Marik's top has slid down his shoulders slightly – as Bakura's arms fasten around Marik's slim torso. They lie together peacefully, both eyes sliding shut as they hold each other close.

Marik draws in a slow sigh, his face resting against Bakura's soft white locks. A small smile graces his lips as he feels Bakura settle into the deep pattern of sleep, as he tightens his grip, Marik realises just how happy he is that Bakura returned to him, even in his broken state. Marik is just as broken as he, after all. The two do not share a night of undisturbed sleep – they both have their demons to deal with – but waking in the safety of each other's arms keeps them comfortable in the knowledge that they are no longer alone.

Sleep comes easier now for the both of them.

**So, yes, this is just a VERY fluffy little fic written on a whim when I saw FG16's beautiful illustration. I don't really think it does the image justice, but I figured I may as well post it anyway – we all love a bit of fluff, right? ^_^ Thank you for reading my nighttime crapness, I apologise for any typos as it is very late. Let me know if you spot any. XD - Jem**


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